10 years later
Jeanne Erso opened her eyes and swung her legs over the edge of her bed before realizing that it wasn't her bed. She sat up and banged her head against the low bunk above. As if the bump had cleared her head, she could suddenly remember where she was and – more importantly – how she had gotten to this filthy dump of a holding cell.
Smuggling goods for the black market never looked good on the résumé once the Nazis caught up with you.
/
Under ordinary circumstances, Casián Andor would never have gone near the Kafrene Ring's territory. They were a notoriously rotten gang with a history of murder and robbery that went back long before the war ever started. They had only gotten bolder during the lawlessness that war tends to bring and with their connections to the black market, anyone who stumbled into their territory tended to be found the next morning with their throat slit.
This being daytime, however, perhaps he might get lucky. That, and the fact that he was a smuggler himself, had even traded with the Kafrene Ring on occasion.
Anyway, he had to be here. Tveit, one of his regular informants had gotten jumpy - well, jumpier than usual - and had decided that meeting in the middle of a den of thieves and murderers was safer than taking a chance that the Gestapo might break up a meeting somewhere else.
Casián couldn't really blame him.
So here he was, moving through the cramped, hazy streets that were shadowed by tall, sagging buildings that smelled of rot and mould and sweat. People of all kinds shoved past him, intent on their own business. He kept one hand on his revolver at all times.
A low whistle sounded from an alleyway and Casián ducked inside when he saw who it was.
"I was about to leave," Tveit complained, his feet shuffling in his anxiousness to get away. His right arm was held in a dirt-stained sling.
Casián shrugged. "I came as fast as I could. What do you have for me?"
Tveit tried to side-step away. His twitching face and furtiveness had always reminded Casián of a rat. "I have to get back to the truck, Andor. Walk with me."
"Back to Jeddah?" Casián gripped Tveit's arm.
The informer squirmed away. "They'll leave without me!"
Casián kept a firm hold on Tveit's arm. They couldn't leave together. It could draw unwanted attention and Tveit was here, right now, with information that he needed. That the Resistance needed. "Easy," he said, in an attempt to sooth the man. "You have news from Jeddah? Come on. Quickly."
Tveit stepped back a little with an air of acquiescence. "A Wermacht driver. He defected yesterday, came to Jeddah with news of a weapon they're building." He trembled.
"What kind of weapon?"
"Look," Tveit said, stepping away again, "I have to go."
Casián grabbed the front of Tveit's jacket and slammed him backwards into one of the crumbling brick walls that formed one side of the alley. "What kind of weapon?!"
Tveit stuttered, "A city killer. That's what the driver called it."
Casián loosened his grip on Tveit. "A city killer," he repeated, trying to make sense of such a thing. If it were true – and he still had doubts – it would change the face of the war, a war which had been going more steadily in the Allies' favour recently.
Tveit was still babbling on. "Someone named Erso sent the driver. Some old friend of Saul's."
Casián started. "Galen Erso? Was it?"
Tveit twisted away. "I don't know," he whined. "They were sending a messenger to Saul when I left."
"Who else knows of this?" Casián demanded.
"I don't know," Tveit repeated. "All I know is that everything's falling apart. Saul's right – there are spies everywhere!"
Too late, Casián realized that they were not alone. Two SS officers stood in the entrance to the alley, their shadows casting a pall. How they had ended up in the Kafrene sector was a mystery, but there had to be more coming. The Nazis knew the reputation of this area and would not have ventured inside without a strong force – and a good reason.
"What is going on here?" the one officer inquired.
"Where are your papers?" the other added.
Casián patted down his shirt as if looking for the identification papers which he had no idea of showing to them. "In my gloves," he said and reached inside his jacket as if to pull out his gloves but instead brought out his revolver.
Two shots, and the officers fell down, dead.
"What have you done?" Tveit almost screamed as Casián peeked around the corner. More SS were headed their way. He turned back to the alley and glanced up. There was a fire escape, one he had spotted as soon as he entered the alley. It was always best to have a plan of escape in any given situation. He shoved the revolver back into his belt and prepared to leap.
"Are you crazy?" Tveit said, real fear snaking across his face. "I'll never make it out of here. My arm-"
Casián paused and took Tveit by the arm – by his good arm. "Hey," he murmured. "Calm down. It will be all right. Calm down."
And then he shot Tveit through the heart.
He stood there for a moment, staring down at the informer, the pounding of Nazi boots matching the pounding of his heart. He jumped as high as he could, grabbing onto the bottom rungs of the fire escape, and swung himself upward.
It was better for Tveit to be dead, to have died a quick death than to be left to the mercy of the Gestapo. Casián knew it better than most. So why would his hands not stop shaking?
/
Bode Reichardt had been walking in the company of these freedom fighters for the better part of an hour and with each passing minute his nerves grew a little more frayed. When he had managed to convince a partisan outside Paris that he was a true defector and not an enemy plant, he had expected to be taken straight to Jeddah where he would relay Galen Erso's message to Galen's old friend, Saul Garreau.
It had not turned out that way, had not gone well at all. Right now he was being led – 'shoved' was probably the more appropriate word – through an overgrown forest that he, though he had no compass, was quite sure was not anywhere on the way to Jeddah.
Questions to his captors were met with silence or sometimes a smack on the back of his head.
The trees and undergrowth began to lessen until Bode and the partisans on either side of him stood in a grassy clearing several hundred metres in every direction.
On the far end of the clearing, a bunch of thin, dirty partisans lounged around, smoking and laughing. When they caught sight of Bode and the men with him, they froze, all except for one man who stepped forward. Their leader, Bode assumed.
He cleared his throat. "You're-you're Saul? Saul Garreau?" The man didn't speak, only eyed Bode impassively. "No?" Bode tried to keep the desperation out of his voice. "We're wasting time! Time that we don't have. I need to speak with Garreau before it's too late. I need to get to Jeddah. I have an urgent message for him – what part of urgent message do you-?"
Without ceremony, a burlap sack was thrown over Bode's head, cutting off his words, but only for a moment. "You don't understand!" he shouted. "We're all in danger!"
